


titanium, whiskey, and a whole lot of lube

by neonheartbeat



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: Aftercare, Clyde Logan Needs a Hug, Cunnilingus, Drunk Sex, Dysfunctional Family, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, First Kiss, No Pregnancy, Old Friends, Oral Sex, Touch Starved Clyde Logan, Vaginal Fisting, Vaginal Sex, is it fisting if you don't have your fist anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26606059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neonheartbeat/pseuds/neonheartbeat
Summary: When an old high school friend of Clyde Logan's returns to town and does him a good turn, some decade-old, nascent emotions rise up again.
Relationships: Clyde Logan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 99





	titanium, whiskey, and a whole lot of lube

**Author's Note:**

> Art by the incomparable TheWitchChugsHerCoffee. 
> 
> Please note that this work contains 
> 
> -sex where one character is mildly inebriated but still gives consent  
> -oral sex: no facefucking or rough sex  
> -STUMPFUCKING: aka Creative Use of Clyde Logan's Massive Forearm  
> -everything it says in the tags, PLEASE READ THEM! 
> 
> and enjoy.

The door to the Duck Tape swung shut, creaking on its hinges with a rattle and clatter that needed to be fixed with some WD-40, in Lottie’s expert opinion. The place was pretty busy for a Wednesday, with a couple people sitting at the bar and at tables. Her eye caught a bottle of beer sitting in the middle of the table with a prosthetic hand curled around it, looking like a Halloween decoration. She paused, grinning at it: the leather strap was still attached. _What the hell’s that about?_

Oh, well. She desperately needed a drink: that was why she’d walked here. “Evening,” she greeted the bartender, who was crouched under the bar and fumbling with something. He stood up quick when he heard her, almost smacking his head on the counter. “I’ll just have…” Her voice trailed off. Lottie was tall, five foot nine, but this man made her feel like she was maybe twelve years old: he was well over six feet tall and _huge,_ in a short-sleeved button-down dark green shirt with a black T-shirt underneath, shoulder-length, wavy dark hair that hadn’t been cut in a long time, and a scraggly mustache and beard. 

As he turned to face her fully, she saw that his left arm ended just below the elbow, supplemented by a titanium forearm and hand that ended in a hook. “Have a what, ma’am?” he asked, and Lottie almost fell off the stool: his voice was about as low as the floor, smooth and even and slow, drawn-out as a fishing line. 

“Sorry. Shot of whiskey?”

“Mm.” He reached over and picked up the bottle, topping off the little glass. “What’s the occasion?” 

“Finally finished college.” She shot him a smile. “After eight damn years. Here’s to me.”

“Good for you,” he said sincerely, and slid her the shot with his flesh-and-blood hand before his eyes narrowed down. “Hold on. College where?”

“Out of state. Virginia Tech.” Lottie threw the shot back and set it down, enjoying the burn in her throat and the warmth in her belly.

“Ho-lee shit,” he said, the corners of his mouth quirking up at the ends. “Charlotte May Daniels?”

She stiffened. “And just how the hell do you—”

“It’s me,” he said, indicating himself with his right hand. “Clyde. You don’t remember me?”

“Clyde _Logan?_ _”_ She gaped a moment: the last time she’d seen Clyde he’d weighed about fifty pounds less, and he’d had a buzz-cut and a clean-shaven face on top of that— but those were the same eyes, the color of good whiskey, hooded and long and triangular under their dark brows. “I remember your brother Jimmy was on the football team, but you shipped off to Iraq, didn’t you? What—” and then the pieces fell back into place: the missing arm. “Oh, shit. I’m real sorry.”

He shrugged. “You got your masters? What in?”

“Engineering,” she told him, and tucked her hair behind her ear. “What’ve you been doin’ since you came home?”

“Runnin’ the bar,” he said, looking down. “Odd jobs here and there. Just got out of a jail stint for crashin’ a car into a convenience store. You know.”

Lottie shrugged. “Well, sounds about typical for the legal system around here.” Behind Clyde, she could see a sharp-faced woman sitting at the other side of the bar, who was giving her a sour look. “Who’s that?” she whispered, not looking at the woman as she glanced down at her shot glass.

“That’s Sarah. She’s new in town. Says she might stay a while.” Clyde peeked through his hair behind him as he bent to wipe the bar with a towel. “She looks kinda hard when she ain’t looking at you head-on, huh?”

“Your new girlfriend?” Lottie teased, and the smile slid off her face when Clyde hunched his shoulders a little, looking down. “Oh. No, I’m sorry, I was just messing.” Lord, she couldn’t quit putting her foot in her mouth in school, and now she was twenty-six and couldn’t stop doing it. “You oughta give me a Jack and Coke and just let me sit here by myself. I can’t be trusted to have a conversation.”

He half-chuckled. “You’re fine. I’ll give you one if you go slow with it.”

“Thanks,” she said, and he mixed her a drink, then left it by her elbow, moving down the bar and handling the other patrons. It was kind of impressive, actually: he was thoughtful and quick, but taciturn, and his mechanical arm could whir open and shut when he needed it to. She wondered how it worked.

Across the bar, Sarah was still watching him. In fact, she seemed to be watching everyone in the bar, and Lottie thought for a moment: hadn’t there been that heist on the speedway a couple months back? She’d never seen this woman before in this neck of the woods, and it wasn’t like backwoods West Virginia was a popular tourist destination: why would she be new in town? After a couple of minutes, Clyde slid back over towards her, and Lottie sat straight up as Sarah’s face suddenly morphed into a smile, all softness, gazing up at Clyde.

Shark smile. Big teeth, dangerous.

Lottie threw the rest of her drink back, letting the ice numb her lips, and set the glass down. “Clyde,” she called, waving, and he held up his finger at Sarah and sauntered over. 

“Hmm? You want a third?”

“I don’t like the way that lady’s looking at everyone in here. She rubs me wrong.”

Clyde frowned. “Well, I can’t kick her out.”

God, men didn’t know _anything._ Lottie tapped her glass. “I want a third. And I’ll need a ride home at closing time.”

He didn’t have much reaction to that, other than to pour her a third drink. She slid a twenty across the bar to him and swung her legs, hooking her sneaker over the bar of the stool below her foot as she stirred her fresh drink with a straw. 

_Clyde Logan._ He had been the weirdest-looking kid in the senior class: long face, all awkward angles and freckles and big ears he’d tried to keep stuffed under hats and hoods, with a sullen mouth that the girls had all giggled about and dared each other to kiss. Nobody ever had, though. Jimmy had been the Logan brother everybody had wanted, with the same plush mouth and angular, hooded eyes: star quarterback on the football team, handsome and muscular even at seventeen, and he’d finally decided to go steady during college football with that pageant queen cheerleader— Bobbie Jo, right? Lottie couldn’t remember. Hadn’t he had a daughter? 

_I’ll ask Clyde to fill me in on everything if he gives me a ride home_ , she thought. Eight years was a lot to catch up on. 

* * *

Clyde pondered while he wiped glasses and watched the bar for anyone who needed their tab rung up or a fresh drink. He didn’t do much talking, but he did do a lot of thinking, and at the moment he was thinking that maybe Lottie May was right about Sarah. Something was just off, like a whiff of spoiled milk, about the way she grinned at him. _She’s sniffin’ for something like a hound dog._

He’d been pleasantly surprised, though, to see Lottie. Most of his highschool classmates had either gotten locked up in jail or ended up dead, so it was nice to see someone who was on the way to making something out of themselves, like Sylvia, who’d been in earlier that night with Jimmy. It was nice to see Jimmy with a smart girl like Sylvia, too. Might work out better than Bobbie Jo. 

Lottie… He stole a look at her from over the bar. He’d hardly recognized her when she’d come in, because the last time he’d laid eyes on her had been at graduation, and she’d had that awful orange makeup and raccoon eyeliner and those thin eyebrows that had been fashionable back in the two-thousands, and her hair had been cut to her shoulders and flat-ironed to within an inch of its life. Now it sprang free, tumbling over her arms and chest in soft, wild auburn curls, and she didn’t have any makeup on that he could tell, because he could see a cluster of reddish blotches on her cheeks when he was standing close enough. _Pimples, probably. Eatin’ gas station food from Virginia Tech to here._ He ought to take her home, fix her a decent meal. Wasn't like she had a home to go back to here. Mrs. Daniels had died when she was in high school, and there’d never been a Mr. Daniels. Why was she back in town?

He wanted to ask, but he didn’t like prying. So he kept on politely ignoring Sarah, and when she finally huffed off, leaving a ten on the bar, he collected it and looked up to see Lottie half-smiling, playing with her glass and watching the other woman leave the bar. That warmed his heart a little: to know someone was looking out for him. To know that Lottie still had his back, even after almost ten years.

Well, it was near on eleven, and people had started to file out: Wednesday nights were never busy. “I’m about ready to close up,” he informed her, wiping his hand on a towel. “You go on and wait on the porch and I’ll walk you to the truck.”

“Thanks,” she said, getting off the stool. He took her all in as she walked to the door: pert backside crammed into a pair of cutoff shorts, lean legs firm with muscle, flat-soled sneakers, and a dark green Henley-style shirt. It was a nice view, all things considered, and looking was about as close as Clyde ever got to enjoying the opposite sex. 

He turned and cleaned the bar, closing down in his usual silence.

* * *

The night was crisp and cool, the fluorescent lights in the parking lot buzzing softly as Clyde silently opened the passenger side door for Lottie to slide in. His truck was a beat up old red Ford, and Lottie vaguely recalled it had been Mr. Logan’s. Clyde hauled himself into the driver’s seat, and the whole cab sank about a foot closer to the asphalt below. _God, I hope the suspension can handle him._

She was pleasantly buzzed, not incapacitated, so she pulled her phone out. “I was gonna ask you to swing by my big brother’s place. He hasn’t been returning my calls, but—”

“Carson?” asked Clyde, sounding startled. “Aw, shit, Lottie, I thought you knew.”

“Knew what?” She felt cold. 

“Carson packed up and moved to Ohio six months back. Had to get a new phone, I think. He got a job in manufacturing.”

Lottie felt hot tears well up. “Oh,” she said, hanging her head. “I… you’d think someone would have told me, huh?”

“He got tied up with a bad crowd after school. He weren’t barely payin’ attention to anything that wasn’t weed. Don’t fuss about it.” Clyde shot her a glance. “You can stay at my place if you want. Ain’t much, but I can take the sofa.”

“I can’t kick you out of your own bed,” Lottie protested, feeling her face heat up. 

“No, it’s all right. I don’t mind. And I don’t go into work tomorrow till about five.”

“Thank you,” she said, leaning her head back against the seat. “I’m sure this isn’t the first time you’ve taken a girl home from the bar.”

Clyde coughed awkwardly and rubbed his nose as he turned the truck into the dirt drive, and Lottie pressed her lips together and looked out the window. _No? It is the first time?_ What the hell? She was almost sure he’d had a girlfriend… no, wait, that was Jimmy who’d had all the girlfriends. _I’ve got to lay off the whiskey._

He helped her out and let her lean on him, and he felt like a brick wall, which she appreciated a lot as he opened the door to the little white-sided house he owned and let her in. It was small, but clean: a decently sized living space, a kitchen, a dining table. She followed him to the bedroom, where he pointed out the bed: made up, with a knit afghan thrown over it. “You want to freshen up, bathroom’s in there,” he said, pointing at the door down the hall. 

“Clyde,” she said, and he froze like a deer in headlights, looking at her. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do this.”

He relaxed some and snorted. “Course I did. You helped me in algebra about a million times, ‘cause I was dumb as a rock, remember? Always had my back.” 

“You were not dumb. You just needed extra time.” Lottie leaned against the doorjamb. “And besides, this ain’t— you don’t have to pay me back for it. That was a gift.”

“Well, you did me a good turn with Sarah,” he said, and she had to smile. “The more I thought about it, the more I thought you were maybe right. She was up to no good.”

“Well, good,” said Lottie, still smiling.

“So I guess I owe you somethin’ for that,” he said softly, taking a tentative step forward. “But like you said, takin’ you home was a gift. From me to you. So I guess I owe you somethin’ else. What d’you want, Charlotte May?”

Lottie’s throat felt dry. Nobody had called her Charlotte May in years, not since... “Can't think of nothing else right now, so I’ll take a kiss if you like,” she whispered, the smile sliding off her face. 

He swallowed, his thick throat bobbing, and stepped forward, bringing him right up to her, a foot away. She looked up. Her eyes only came to his chin. “All right,” he said, sounding a little rough. 

“You’ve… you’ve kissed girls before, right, Clyde?” she asked.

He didn’t answer. He just leaned in, bending at the waist like a teenager who didn’t know what he was doing, and pressed his soft mouth to hers. Lottie thought, _oh no, he’s never kissed anyone in his life, has he?_ and then, _this is kinda nice_ as his scratchy beard rubbed against her cheeks. Both his hands caught at her waist: one solid flesh, warm, the other one a cool metal hook that poked her in the side, and he pulled back silently when he realized what he’d done, looking at the floor. She didn’t move, just stood where she was, her hands at her sides.

“Nobody’s called me Charlotte May since tenth grade,” she said softly. “I remember a real nice note got left in my locker at school after a bunch of senior boys filled it with smoke bombs. I don’t suppose you know who might’ve done it.”

Clyde drew his flesh hand across his face. “You were always nice,” he croaked, still not looking at her. “Still nice. ‘M sorry about all this. I— I’ll just—”

“Sorry about what? There’s nothing to be sorry about. Hey.” Lottie reached out and touched his left shoulder. “You were never one for talkin’ much, but even I can tell something’s got you all shook up.”

“It’s nothin’,” he said to the wall behind her. “Thought— I thought I might’ve scairt you off with the arm.”

“It’ll take more than a hook-hand to scare me off,” said Lottie. “How does it… can you show me how the hand moves? I saw you using it, but I don’t quite get how it works.”

Clyde hesitated a moment, then looked down at his arm. “The electrodes inside the forearm bit here can sense when the muscles in my arm move, and that tells the hook fingers to open and close,” he said in his careful, slow drawl. The shining metal curves parted and closed again. “Like that.”

“Can I touch it?” Lottie whispered, looking up at him. It was fascinating, seeing this kind of medical technology up close and personal.

“Mm,” he said, and held his arm out to her stiffly. Lottie ran her fingers along the metal, the titanium-fiberglass body, the strap that held it to his upper arm. His hook-fingers opened suddenly, and she jumped, then laughed at herself while he half-grinned, blushing to the tip of his big nose. 

“It doesn’t look so comfortable here,” she told him, tapping the strap, which had begun to cut into the skin of his upper arm. 

“Yeah. Gets a little raw after wearing all day. Not even the fancy one can stop that,” he said. “You mind if I take it off?”

“‘Course not. It’s your house.” Lottie stepped back and watched as he unbuckled the strap with a practiced right hand and slid the whole thing off, head bent, a curtain of dark hair covering his eyes as he rubbed the red marks by his thick elbow. “Can I help?” Clyde’s dark eyes met hers as he raised his head, and they stood there in silence, just looking at each other for the longest couple seconds of Lottie’s life before he nodded silently and extended what remained of his arm to her. Lottie reached out and touched the red marks lightly, ignoring the stump. “You got any Arnica cream?”

“Cupboard in the kitchen,” he said in a hoarse voice without looking at her in the eyes. 

“All right. Let’s get it.”

* * *

Lottie sat with him on the sofa, her hair tied back, and carefully rubbed Arnica cream out of the tube into the chafed marks on his elbow. Clyde let her do it, keeping his eyes studiously on her hands as they worked and not on her face. 

“You know,” she said, breaking the silence, “when they told me you’d lost your arm, I was thinkin’— like, up to the shoulder.”

He made a dry little noise. “It’s technically my hand, not my arm. I’m a transradial amputee. Across the radius. See?” He pointed to the stump. “Still got most of it left below the elbow.”

“Oh. I did notice that,” said Lottie, tapping his forearm. “You got some big arms, Clyde. And here I was thinking it was Jimmy who had all the muscle in the family.”

Something flickered across Clyde’s long face. “Don’t do that,” he said in his slow, careful voice, and he sounded very tired. 

“Do what?”

“Flirt with me, when you’n me both know you don’t mean it. You— you don’t have to be nice to me like that. Lettin’ you stay here isn’t somethin’ I want nothin’ in exchange for. You can take that kiss, but... ” He trailed off, shaking his head. 

Lottie sat back, surprised. “What? What d’you mean, I don’t mean it?”

“Well— you, you’re—” Clyde waved his other hand, at a loss for words. “You know,” he said, his nose turning pink. “I don’t, I don’t want to take advantage of you, or get handsy or anythin’.”

“Advantage? Of _me?_ _”_ Lottie tried her hardest not to laugh. “You were never the type to take advantage of nobody, Clyde. Unless you changed much in the past eight years.”

“I ain’t. Have you?” Clyde looked at her directly, his whiskey-colored eyes gleaming in the light, and Lottie felt self-conscious suddenly, like he’d stumbled across her naked. “‘Cause I remember you used to have your face all gooped up orange and your bangs flat as a pancake. And now I can see a little freckle here and there, and turns out you got curls.”

Lottie flushed. She’d forgotten she hadn’t put on anything in the way of makeup that morning, and Clyde’s eyes had gone strangely intense. “Yeah, well,” she said, trying to look at him directly, “they must have fed you good in the Army, ‘cause you ain’t the only one who’s changed.”

His mouth worked a moment under his sparse moustache. “I ain’t changed. Not really. Not where it counts.”

“Good. Me either,” she said softly, unsure of what they were really saying to each other. She reached out for his arms, letting her fingers gently rest on his bare skin for a moment. His jaw worked a moment, and he looked away. “You don’t like bein’ touched much? I see you got on that T-shirt under this shirt.”

“Not… dislike, exactly,” he said, meeting her eyes again. “Just don’t like feelin’ too exposed, I guess.”

“Oh,” Lottie said. “Not even with, um, with girls?”

“What girls?” he said, ducking his head in a little self-deprecating shrug that spoke more than words ever could. 

“There’s gotta be somebody you took a shine to somewhere down the road,” said Lottie, feeling almost sorry for him. 

“Well, there was one,” he said softly. “But I don’t think she never felt the same about me. She’s smart as a whip. Went to college for engineering, and deserved a better family’n what she got.”

Lottie felt her mouth drop open. “Me?” she squeaked. “What d’you mean, I don’t feel the same? I asked you for a kiss, didn’t I?”

“I thought you was just bein’ nice to me,” he said after a moment, avoiding looking her in the eyes.

“Well, I wasn’t. I like you, Clyde.” She could feel her cheeks growing hot. 

“That’s all that whiskey talkin’,” he protested. “I— I oughta let you sleep—”

Lottie wedged her knee between his massive thighs and kissed him as hard as she could on the mouth. His scruffy hair scraped her lips and cheeks, but she couldn’t help it: he froze up for a second and then started melting into her like ice cream on a hot day. Clyde wrapped both arms around her close: his hand tangling into her curls and his other arm gripping her by the waist. “I don’t wanna sleep,” she whispered. “And I’m hardly tipsy anymore. I paced myself.”

“Charlotte May,” he whispered, slow and soft against her cheek. “I ain’t no good for you.”

“I don’t care.”

“I only got one hand.”

“I don’t care about that either.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, kissing her cheek and scratching her with his beard. “All right. What do you want to—”

“Bedroom,” she said, tugging on his wrist. “Come on.”

* * *

Clyde sat on the bed in his T-shirt and jeans like he was afraid she was going to pounce on him as Lottie took off her clothes. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from her, though, and the muscles beneath them twitched rapidly as she stripped down to her bra and underwear. They weren’t a good pair, either: they were oatmeal-colored cotton bikini-briefs from a Walmart four-pack that had seen better days, and her bra was old, too. The elastic in one strap had gone all wobbly along the edges. 

He didn’t seem to give a damn. “You’re mighty pretty,” he said, in a tight, low voice. “And I don’t, I—”

“You’re just fine,” she said hotly, and squatted down between his knees. “Can I take your pants off you?”

“Yeah, go on,” he said, and watched her as she unbuckled his belt, undid his fly, and tugged his Levis off his feet. His boxers were camouflage-print, with a fraying elastic band, and his thighs were thick and pale and dusted with dark hair just like his lower belly was. She pressed her hand against the thick, hard lump in his boxers, and Clyde stiffened. “Lottie,” he whispered, tensing up. 

She took her hand away. “Shh. It’s okay. I won’t do nothing to you that you don’t like.”

“I don’t even know what I don’t like, 'cause ain't nobody ever done this to me,” he said, and as she bent in to press a kiss to his thigh, his left arm came down as if by instinct to touch her hair, but only the blunt end of his arm bumped against her head. “Shit, sorry,” he said tightly. “I didn’t—”

Lottie turned her head and kissed his arm. Kissed the crook of his elbow, the inside of it, kissed down the inside of his forearm and down to where it ended, right where his wrist should have started. She’d always liked his hands: big and pale, with careful fingers and broad nails. A shame, really, that one had been lost. There were two intersecting scars like a cross at the end of his stump where they’d sewn the flaps of skin over to fix him up. “Can I kiss you here?” she whispered, glancing up at Clyde.

He looked as if someone had just punched him in the gut. “Charlotte _May_ ,” he croaked helplessly, and shut his eyes, nodding. 

So she did: she kissed him all over there, pressing little smacks to the scars. “I don’t care where you touch me with it,” she whispered. “You touch me anywhere you want to.”

“Anywhere,” he echoed, and opened his eyes. “Well. First you better— we better— I want to—” Clyde seemed to be struggling to find words, but Lottie knew what he meant. She climbed up onto the bed and pushed him down lightly so that he rested on his back, and then she curled in alongside him and cupped him over his boxers. A little gasp escaped his teeth, and he shut his eyes quick, mouth half-open as he let her do it, rubbing lightly. 

“Like this?” she asked. 

“Feels nice,” he whispered. “You can, you— take ‘em off.”

“Shirt, too?”

“Not yet,” he said, eyes flashing to hers like he wasn’t sure she’d understand, but she just nodded and tugged down his boxers. Clyde was a big man everywhere, which she’d known, but still: that dick of his was heavy and hard and lying drunkenly along his lower belly as she tossed his shorts to the floor. 

“All right,” she said, eyes fixed on it. “You want me on top, or you on top?”

He exhaled sharply. “You, you—” Clyde had to take a moment to swallow. “You bend over the bed. I’ll get behind you.”

Lottie’s throat felt suddenly very dry. “All right,” she said, slipping off the bed as he sat up. “Like this?” She bent at the waist, bracing herself with her hands on the bed as Clyde took his pace behind her, his hand resting on her back. He felt warm. 

“Like this,” he said, and unclasped her bra one-handed with surprising deftness, letting the whole thing slip off her arms and pool around her wrists. His hand came down and gently grazed her breasts, his thick knuckles brushing her nipples. “You got nice tits,” he said softly, and pulled his hand away, fumbling with his cock.

“Wait,” said Lottie, biting back a smile. “Wait, you gotta warm me up first, or it won’t go in.”

“Oh,” said Clyde. “How do I do that, then?”

“You gotta kiss me some more. Come down and kiss me all over everywhere ‘till I tell you I’m ready.”

“Pettin’, you mean?” She felt his raspy beard on her back as he kissed her lightly between her shoulder blades, and his hand came back to grasp her right breast, squeezing gently. “Soft,” he said roughly, kissing her again. His stump slid up her side, holding her close to him, and Lottie didn’t mind it at all: he was warm everywhere, and firm and solid, and the whiskey had done a fine job of getting her all soft and wet and ready. His hand slipped down and pulled her underpants down to her knees, and traced her thighs on the way back up.

“That’s good,” she told him, shivering. “All right. Let me get my hand down there so I can show you where you’re supposed to go.”

“I know where I’m—” he began, slightly indignant, but got real quiet when her hand closed down on his cock, guiding him to her. “Oh. That’s— hotter’n I thought it’d be. And wet. Christ.” He gave a slow thrust that didn’t go anywhere and just slid between her lips, but he shuddered anyway. “You’re so damn _wet_ , Charlotte May.”

“Well, I got to be,” she panted. Who’d known Clyde Logan had been packing _this_ in his Levis? “Just try it again, line it up and be, be gentle, ‘cause you’re a big boy.”

“I’ll try,” he said, and worked his hands around, exploring her, guiding his fingers in and making her twitch around the fullness his fingers provided. “God. _God._ You’re too damn good. All right.” He pulled his hand away and pushed the head of his cock back up against her. “Like this?”

“Like that,” she squeaked, bending her head down. “Go on. Get it in. Slow, now.”

He pushed, and her flesh, slick with her own wanting, parted to let him in, and in, and in. “Oh-h-h, holy God almighty, fuckin’ hell, Jesus,” he gasped, sliding all the way in and bottoming out. Lottie couldn’t hardly breathe: he felt the size of a tanker truck, wedged somewhere in her kidney. “Jesus _Christ_ you’re good, feels, feels—” His voice broke off, and he rolled his hips, gripping her tight with his right hand and pushing her down to the bed, bracing himself on his left elbow and starting up a good, hard rhythm. The bed started squeaking and creaking, but he didn’t slow down. Lottie shut her eyes tight and let out a couple of noises of her own. Clyde was good, he was kind and gentle and helpful: she was kind of glad he’d never had cause to do this with anyone else, because she’d always liked him, and at least she could make his first time good for him.

Clyde sucked in a strangled noise and buried his face in her neck. “Shit,” he gasped, “shit, I’m, I’m gonna come, Charlotte May, where d'you want me t—”

“You come however you want to,” she said, gripping the quilt for dear life. “I got my end covered.”

A cry tore from his lips, and he pushed her down roughly, pulled out, and then she heard the unmistakable slap-rub sound of someone jerking off. It was only a second before warm, spunk splattered her lower back, and Clyde’s breathing gradually slowed as he spread out his fingers on her right ass cheek. “Sorry,” he said after a moment, his voice gone coarse as sandpaper. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t hurt you none?”

“No, I’m fine,” she said, and turned her head. “Can you get me a washcloth or something?”

“Oh,” he said, sounding embarrassed. “Yeah. Hold on.” She heard him walk to the bathroom, run the water, and come back, and felt a warm, wet cloth rub her lower back, cleaning her up. “I didn’t never think about that part.”

“That’s all right,” she said, smiling in spite of herself. “Guess they don’t show you that in porn.”

He blushed scarlet. “You— did you like it?”

“Sure. It was nice.”

Clyde, in a black T-shirt and nothing else, was not to be deterred. “You didn’t finish, did you?”

Lottie swallowed. “No. That’s all right, though. Sometimes one person just doesn’t.”

“Do you want to?”

She thought for a moment. Yes, she did, and Clyde could pick up stuff quick: she knew that well enough. “Yeah. Do you… want me to show you how?”

“Lord, that’s all I want,” he whispered, sliding down between her knees so that his head was almost in her lap. “Show me how.”

“All right,” said Lottie softly, reaching out to touch his hair. It was soft, and he leaned into her fingers a little, eyes closing. “All right. You got to find my clit first.”

“Mm,” he said, opening his eyes and looking between her legs. “I think you’d better sit further forward so’s I can see what I’m doing.” Lottie inched forward and spread her legs, laying back a little and resting on her elbows with her feet on the floor as Clyde ran his hand down the inside of her thighs. 

“You look around and I’ll tell you if you find it,” she whispered, biting her bottom lip as his fingers poked delicately around her tender bits. 

“You’re all swollen up,” Clyde said quietly as he explored. “Looks tender.”

“It is,” Lottie said, her toes curling as his finger dipped into her. “Ooh. ‘Cause of the friction.” His thumb grazed her at the top, and she stiffened as a jolt went through her. _“Clyde,_ that—”

“Was that it? God damn.” He rubbed her again at the top, and she shrieked, trapping his broad chest between her knees. “You holler like a hit dog, Charlotte May. Hush, now.”

“Clyde, goddammit—” She gasped in a breath as his big thumb rolled over her in gentle, firm strokes. “Fuck. _Fuckin’_ hell, Jesus, don’t stop whatever you d—”

He leaned in and kissed her, his tongue earnestly pressing against her, and she was already so close that she went crashing over the edge, shrieking as she clamped his body between her thighs. “Easy, now,” she heard him whispering, felt his beard scratching her belly. “Hush, girl. They’re gonna hear you clear into Kentucky.”

“God,” she gasped, opening her eyes. “Clyde. Get up here and kiss me.”

He crawled up over her body and laid a damp kiss on her mouth that tasted of earth, alkaline musk, and sweat. “What do we do now?” he rumbled. 

Lottie tugged him up and rolled over atop him, panting with exertion as she looked down at him. “I want to look at you,” she breathed. Her fingers grasped the T-shirt. “All of you, Clyde.”

“Go on, then,” he said, and let her pull the shirt off over his head, exposing a pale, thickly built body. Lottie just touched him for a couple of minutes: neck, shoulders, chest, flanks, down to his hips, and then she picked up his right hand and kissed it everywhere she could find: every finger, palm, and the back. He watched her do it with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes, and when she put it back on his chest, she picked up his other arm and kissed it, too, peppering the scars that marked his stump in soft kisses. “Charlotte May,” Clyde whispered, and she thought his eyes might be wet. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Sure I do,” she whispered against his warm skin. “You don’t like it, I can stop, though.”

“No,” he said. “No, you keep going.” So she did, and maybe the whiskey was making her a little sloppy, because she found herself drooling a little on his arm, and got red in the face… but Clyde was staring at her like it was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen in his life. “Jesus,” he said softly.

“I’m sorry—”

“No. It’s… it’s fine.” He pulled her down a little and curled his arm around her to keep her on his chest, then got his hand between her legs again. “You’re still all wet. You must like me an awful lot.”

“I do,” she muttered into his big ear as he slipped in a finger, then another. “Ooh. Clyde, what’r’e you—”

“Just… thinking,” he said, tight and low, and turned his head into hers a moment as he pulled his right hand away and replaced it with his other, wedging what was left of his left arm down between their bodies as his right hand gripped her backside. Lottie let out a little breath as he used his arm to rub at her gently, slowly, giving her time to tell him not to do it… but she didn’t.

“You wanna put that inside me?” she blurted out, and instantly wished she could take it back, ashamed. “Oh, God, I didn’t mean—”

“Yes,” he gasped, suddenly gripping her tighter. “If it’ll— fit, I mean.”

Lottie could hardly breathe. “I don’t know. We’d need lube.”

“I got lube,” he said quickly, pressing a kiss to her head through her hair. “Let me up a second.” She did, rolling off him, and he rolled over, digging through the nightstand and coming up with a bottle of KY. “How do we—”

“Put it everywhere,” she instructed, sure she was as red as a fire engine. “All over. Use a lot. And give some to me.” Clyde obeyed, slathering his arm to the elbow in lube while Lottie slicked everything between her legs up. It wasn’t hard: she was still wet and tender from everything beforehand. “All right. Now, you better—”

“I’ll be careful,” he whispered, and guided her down to a position on all fours, her legs up and apart, his wide shoulders wedged between her knees. He slid his fingers in again, thick and firm, and she moaned without realizing it for a moment. “There we go,” he drawled, slow and careful as honey. “I don’t know how much you can take, but I’ll be gentle with you, Charlotte May.”

“Aw, shit,” she mumbled as the slick, impossibly wide end of his forearm nudged against her. Lottie had to remind herself not to tense up, and relaxed, mouth open and eyes shut, as he worked away between her legs, kissing her everywhere, using his fingers, too. “Clyde,” she whispered. 

“You be patient for me, Charlotte May,” he panted against her lower back, beginning to work it in. She spread her legs further and moaned aloud: his arm was _huge,_ impossibly huge, and unbelievably sliding bit by bit into her. “I won’t hurt you none. Jesus Christ, you’re tight. You okay?”

“Clyde,” she squeaked, trembling as he worked his arm into her as deep as it could comfortably go. “Oh, fuck. How…” Lottie reached around the back and tested his buried arm with trembling fingers: he was seated inside her a couple inches shy of his elbow. _“Fuck,”_ she panted. 

“Damn straight,” he said, and began to withdraw a little. She wanted to protest, but he shoved his arm forward a little, sending every nerve ending inside her body into a paroxysm. He was on the edge of far, far too big to take, but she'd never been a quitter, and even though sparks were flying in front of her eyes, she resolved to finish it out to the end.

“Harder,” Lottie gasped, when she could talk again. “You won’t break me.”

“No?” Clyde began to work his arm, panting a little with the effort, and Lottie let out a full-throated shriek, warbling and drooling into the quilt as his hand came up between her legs and brushed against her clit in firm, even strokes. “No, I won’t,” he whispered, half to himself, and she couldn’t stand it a second longer: she came apart between his arm and his hand, shaking wildly through her orgasm, stuffed full of him and gasping for air as she came down. 

“Jesus,” she groaned as Clyde let her down to the quilt and pulled his arm out of her body. It made a squishy, slick noise as it left her, and she felt weak and wobbly without it. Lottie rolled to her side and blinked up at Clyde, who was awkwardly kneeling between her sprawled legs, sporting another erection that pointed right at her like a signpost. His chest was expanding and contracting with every breath like a bellows. 

“Can we… again?” he asked, like he couldn’t quite get enough air. 

“I’m all wore out down there,” she said, sitting up and ignoring the burning ache of stretched-out muscle. “Come here. I got two hands and a mouth. Which one d’you want?”

“Mouth,” he whispered, blushing like he was embarrassed to say it. “Please.”

“Sure,” Lottie said, and got him to lay down flat while she sat on his thigh and got to work trying to fit him into her mouth. He was big, too big to fit completely, so she used her hand to make up for the difference, sucking and humming and licking. It took only a moment, it seemed, before he was jerking beneath her, gasping, his hand tangled in her auburn curls and her free hand pressed to his soft belly, and then he was coming in her mouth with a cry, warm and salty all over her tongue. She swallowed on instinct, sucked him clean, and lifted her head, trying to find him through watering eyes. 

“God, you’re—” he stammered, and pulled her up with one hand to sprawl out on his chest, wrapping his arms around her tight. There was still lube, half-dried and sticky, smeared over his left forearm, but Lottie didn’t care. Clyde sighed deeply and held her close, and she buried her face in his neck, breathing in the smell of his hair: Walmart shampoo, grease, faintly clinging smoke.

“Much obliged for the hospitality,” she whispered, smiling.

“I was gonna make you dinner,” he rumbled, stroking her back with his hand. “Christ. After that, I oughta take you out to dinner. Do you know how long I been thinkin’ about that?”

“‘Bout as long as I have, probably,” said Lottie sleepily. “Well. Never too late.”

“I’ll take you to breakfast in the morning,” said Clyde, turning his head into her hair. “Don’t you worry about money or none of that. You can stay as long as you like.”

“You’re real nice, Clyde Logan,” she whispered, and kissed him. “Let me up. I gotta go sit on a cold towel.”

“I’ll get it,” he said quickly, and wriggled out from under her, heading to the bathroom again. “Anything else you want?”

“Um, Motrin, I think.” Lottie rolled to her back and stretched out, listening to her spine pop. “Ow. I might have to have breakfast in bed.”

Clyde cleaned himself up, came back in with the wet towel, and draped it over on the hard metal seat of the one chair in the room: a folding chair speckled with rust. “Sit on down,” he said. “Breakfast in bed, huh?”

“Maybe.” Lottie walked over gingerly— well, tried to walk, awkwardly waddling and wincing was more like it, and sat down as Clyde went through his bedside drawer and came up with a bottle of ibuprofen, handing her a pill and a bottle of water to wash it down with. “If you can swing it.”

“I can swing it,” he said, and pulled his boxers back on. “You… I’ll get you somethin’ to sleep in.”

“Thanks, Clyde,” she said, gulping down the painkiller. 

“Don’t mention it. You did me a good turn, so it stands to reason you ought to have one too.” He turned down the bed and handed her an old T-shirt and a pair of clean boxers. Already, the ache was easing to a slow throb, and Lottie tugged on her borrowed clothes before wobbling over to the bed and curling up on the bumpy old sheets as Clyde crawled in alongside her, big and warm and solid. “You go to sleep, now,” he said softly. 

“Mm. I will.” Lottie wedged herself up alongside him and tucked her chin into his chest. He hesitated a moment, then draped his right arm over her waist, stretching out with his left one to let it rest on the bed above her head. 

“That all right?”

“Mmm-hmm,” mumbled Lottie, and turned her head to kiss his arm, just above the elbow. He didn’t make a sound, just reached up and stroked her hair with his right hand, holding her close like he’d never let her go.


End file.
